


Nothing's Gonna Change My World

by Dandybear



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, John Dies at the End References, POV Second Person, Renegade Commander Shepard, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandybear/pseuds/Dandybear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Riley Shepard died. She was charred bone and fat. I am what they made out of the remains.”</p><p>“Does that bother you?”</p><p>You shrug. </p><p>--</p><p>A character exploration of Renegade DoucheShep ranging from ME2 - ME3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. EDI

**Author's Note:**

> The opening of this is taken from John Dies at the End. The movie's a little self-indulgent, but a fun watch.
> 
>  
> 
> It always annoyed me how the game made me choose between being Renegade and liking aliens. My Shepard was an asshole who preferred aliens to humans. Why can't that be a thing?
> 
> So I wrote a thing.
> 
> In case you're interested...
> 
> Riley Scout Shepard is a Renegade Spacer Sentinel. She's a spoiled military brat with a bunch of Mommy and Daddy issues(Mommy didn't love me and I need a man/woman/authority figure to replace my Daddy)
> 
> She's Samoan/Australian Aboriginal/French descent with dark skin and blonde hair. She has a scar across her nose that goes from cheek to cheek. Her favourite feature is her glowing red eyes.

_So say you have an axe. One day you’re taking the axe to the skull of some Batarian. He struggles with you. There’s wrestling and blood and sweat and tears, but you finally cut the fucker’s head off and add him to the burn pile. In the process of doing so, however, the blade of your axe gets cracked._

_So you visit your armoury and explain the situation. They don’t typically do axes, so you have to get special permission from your SO. It’s a hassle, but finally they agree to fix your axe._

_You get the axe with the new blade about six days later._

_It’s a few months later and your home is being invaded by bandits. You’re listening to music in your room and just happen to be lucky enough to have your axe nearby. You grab it to defend yourself. It looks like you brought an axe to a gunfight. But, you’re the better fighter. You beat them to death with the blunt handle of said axe. The force completely splinters and cracks the handle._

_You take it back to the armoury and explain what happened. They ask if you’d like to upgrade to a stronger material. You’re old fashioned and say you’re fine with a wooden handle._

_It takes about a month this time, but you get your axe back._

_Now, it’s a year later and you’re on some moon near Ceres and you’re chopping bugs with your trusty axe. Footsteps approach you. It’s a Batarian. This fucker looks familiar, and -holy shit- it’s that Batarian you decapitated over a year ago. He point and says,_

_“That’s the axe that killed me!”_

_Is he wrong?_

EDI’s silence seems to hum as she considers your scenario.

 

“Yes. The axe may be an exact duplicate model, but it is not the same axe.”

 

“Then so it is with me and the Normandy. Just a few updates.”

 

“You are not Commander Shepard then?”

 

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of your private bathroom. The cool steel beneath you sticks to your bare thighs. You have a scalpel in one hand, a steel chip rests on your knee. You make an incision into your forearm.

 

“I am and I am not. I’m the same model number and same parts compiled, but there are a few updates thrown in and I was assembled in a different factory.”

 

EDI makes a noise too much like a human breath.

 

“Riley Shepard died. She was charred bone and fat. I am what they made out of the remains.”

 

“Does that bother you?”

 

You shrug.

 

You are stardust blown apart and then compressed back together. A sum of many parts. You are made of blood and steel. Tiny microchips fire commands to your proteins, reminding them to build more cells.

 

They called you The Lazarus Project. This further proves that Cerberus aren’t just an anthropocentric bag of dicks, they’re also a Eurocentric bag of dicks.

 

Lazarus, no, you are Horus. You were a king who was dismembered and scattered. Your lover found your body and hid it in her womb, you have been reborn. You are different and the same.

 

You cut away the flesh and bone until you find the metal. You can upgrade your own system.

 

“What are you doing, Shepard?”

 

EDI is a curious child. She’s the only Cerberus member you trust. Humans are complex, lying, manipulative creatures. So easy to persuade to any crusade. Give you a machine any day.

 

“I’m seeing the extent of my Cerberus upgrades and giving myself a few of my own design.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“I’m checking for a kill switch and adding some additional plating.”

 

“Your workplace doesn’t look very sterile.”

 

“Life isn’t sterile.”

 

“You risk infection by cutting yourself up like this and injecting foreign material into your body, Shepard.”

 

“Yeah, see, I’ve been testing this new model for a while. Cerberus made it a lot harder to die and a lot easier to recover. I’ll be fine.”

 

“You don’t sound fine. You sound like you’re succumbing to self destruction.”

 

“Self improvement.”

 

“‘Self improvement is masturbation, now self destruction?’” A male voice crackles instead of EDI’s.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Fight Club, a late 20th century film by David Fincher, based on the novel by Chuck Palahniuk.”

 

“Ah. Good use of reference. You’re improving, EDI.”

 

You can hear the giddy glow in her voice as she thanks you.

 

“Shepard. Does anyone know what you’ve been doing to your body?” Her voice quavers.

 

“Well, you know. So, have you told anyone?”

 

EDI’s silence is audible. You turn to face her glowing beach ball form.

 

“I am not sure what conduct is appropriate. Were I your Mental Health Officer, I would be obligated to contact your SO and Medical Officer. As I am neither, I have told no one so far. I should let you know that I’m worried, though, Shepard.”

 

“Thanks for the concern, EDI. I’m not slitting my wrists, I’m performing science. Nothing to worry about.”

 

“...Garrus shared an interesting anecdote about you drinking enough Ryncol to severely intoxicate a Krogan.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are you suicidal, Shepard?”

 

You scrub a hand over your face and grumble into it.

 

“No, EDI. I’m testing the limits of my body. I like it. You should have seen me as a teenager. I would go days without sleep or food. I lived off alcohol, drugs, and human proteins.”

 

“Human… proteins?”

 

“Semen.”

 

“Oh. Ah. I see.” If she had cheeks she’d be blushing.

 

“It’s not very responsible. I just. It’s how I’m coping with the whole thing.”

 

“I see. Well, I’m here if you need to talk.”

  
“Thanks, EDI.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard adopts a Krogan war-machine and talks to Mordin about inter-species relations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think anyone would have interest in this, but thanks for showing it! Here's another chapter of Doucheshep's stream of consciousness and revealing the root of some of those issues.
> 
> Grunt is the cutest murdering son and I am so proud of him.

You have a child now. He’s not born from your vagina or whatever, but you’ve claimed him as yours. You found a Krogan in a tank and shouted “Dibs!”. It earned the confused stares of Jack and Miranda. (You’ve been trying to set the two of them up for either a fight to the death or hot hate sex. Your morbid curiousity isn’t nearly worth the headache of their bickering.)

 

Waking him up from tank-sleep is less painful than expelling a baby Krogan from your vagina, it’s a lot giddier and rewarding, adoption is fucking awesome. He, like the perfect baby boy he is, tries to kill you. You have to assert yourself as the mama Krogan. He is your whelp.

 

He’s perfect.

 

Grunt is that fresh breath of oxygen that your tube and pump lungs so needs. He’s stubborn and hard and a complete innocent. He wants to kill. It’s what he was born to do. All instinct and artificial programming.

 

Maybe his birth reminds you of your rebirth and that is why you love him. You were both formed out of tissue. Motherless seeds of an agenda.

 

You know he doesn’t understand this yet. That you two are both salvations made from ash and blood.

 

Instead he butts heads with the team and storms about the kitchen looking for food. You’re so proud. You have EDI taking pictures of him that you’ve been sending to Liara. You’re sure she has no idea what you’re doing. You honestly don’t care at this point. That woman is an enigma to you.

 

Speaking of Liara, being a parent doesn’t kill your sex drive. She’s acting all frigid and refusing to have vid sex because you dying and her bringing you back to life somehow constitutes “A Break”. Like, whatever that means. Your relationship with her is the longest you’ve ever had. This is incredibly pathetic if you consider the fact that you were dead for most of it.

 

In short, you’re horny. (And a single mom?)

 

Jack is starting to look more appealing. It’s weird because you practically have XENOPHILIAC tattooed across your face. (Maybe you should tattoo it on your face just to watch Miranda scream internally when you talk to her.) Humans are so passe when there are so many different flavours and textures of sentient booty to sample. You’re kind of concerned that you haven’t gone on a sex binge in order to test the new body further.

 

Well, tomorrow is a new day. Except, there is no day or night in space. (Something they don’t tell you about in the academy is that you spend all of your shore leave hissing at daylight and sleeping all afternoon.)

 

They also don’t tell you about dying and the pitfalls of adopting genetically engineered Krogan, but here you are: boldly going where none have gone before.

 

Or going where you often go in this case. You find yourself wandering into Mordin’s lab. He’s humming under his breath and chewing something that smells like Kentucky fried anus. You wrinkle your nose and inspect your reflection in the window. You look like death that’s been reheated to a point where it’s slightly lukewarm.

 

In summary, you look like shit.

 

“Commander. Is there something I can help you with?”

 

“Do you think I made the right decision with Grunt. I know you’re into the whole… Genophage thing.”

 

He barely bristles, but you can tell he's bothered.

 

“It was not my decision, Commander, nor is it my place to question your judgement. If you’re looking for someone to fight with about it, I would recommend Lawson’s office.” He mutters something.

 

“What was that last bit?”

 

“Oh, nothing. Just found an outbreak of scale itch aboard the ship. You wouldn’t know anything about that?” The judgemental look he give you reminds you of Mother.

 

“Nah, Man, that ain’t me. I mean, you get it from fucking Varren, right?”

 

He clucks his tongue in affirmative.

 

“Now, I can see why you’d expect it to be me. I will be the first person to admit that I’m a massive alien slut. However, we have this thing about consent where I come from. If something/someone isn’t capable of consenting then you don’t hump it. Unless it’s like a vibrator.”

 

“Enlightening, Commander.”

 

“Have you asked Miranda?”

 

There’s a pause where he looks at you. His lips begin to twitch. You break and start to laugh.

 

“Oh man, I bet it is. It’s always the anti-alien types who get off on that!”

 

EDI chimes in, “Commander, you’ve received a message from Captain Shepard.”

 

Something heavy and thick clogs your throat. Mordin sees the way you stiffen at the mention.

 

“Thanks, EDI. I’ll be right there.”

 

Mordin seems to consider asking you about the clear issues, but decides against it. He knows that you’ll probably end up telling him in your daily overshare anyway.

 

“Good, uh, good talk, Bud.”

 

“Commander.”

 

You wipe the sweat off your hands onto your uniform as you leave.

 

Hannah has sent you a message. You haven’t heard from the woman since before you died--rather, the previous Riley spoke to her. You’ve never met your mother.

 

The thought makes you feel a little freer of the power she usually holds over you.

 

Hannah Shepard, the shadow you struggle to crawl out of. The lone person you cannot impress.

 

You sent her a message three months ago telling her you were alive.

 

It’s taken her one fourth of a year to reply.

_So I have to find out my child is alive third-hand from the Alliance brass? Where the hell have you been?_

Well either your email went straight to her junk folder, or she’s just covering her ass for the delay.

 

_I figure whatever you're doing is classified, likely part of your Spectre Operations. Just stay safe out there, and keep doing your mom proud. And sneak something through a secure channel next time._

_Love,_

_Your mother, Captain Hannah_

 

Thanks a heap, Cap, like you forgot her status for a second. Ah well, you’ve had worse communications with the woman. Like for all of your teen years and adulthood up until you became a ranked officer. Then you were finally allowed to call her ‘Mother’ instead of Captain. Yup, all you had to do to get her attention was murder a fuckload of Batarians. Yay you.

You should probably take EDI up on her therapy offers. Still, she’s a baby computer and organics are a messy, complicated lot. You don’t want her to fry circuits trying to comprehend why you’re such a shitty basket case of a human being. Cyborg. Whatever.

Instead, you decide to raid the bar they installed on the Normandy. 10/10 addition Illusive Man. 


End file.
